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against the blazon of one of England’s most powerful barons was … sheer madness! De Gournay would spare no effort, even to burning down every last square inch of forest in Lincoln, to respond to the insult. And his revenge upon those who had committed the offense … !
    As it happened, Servanne was in the midst of contemplating—in hideously graphic detail—the many possible forms her betrothed’s retribution would take, when the piercing gray-blue eyes began scanning the frightened faces of the women. An oddity in the group caused them to flick sharply back to the only gaze that was not instantly and contritely shielded behind tear-studded lashes.
    If he was surprised to see instead the small, tight smile that compressed her lips, the outlaw leader did not show it. If she expected him to be rendered speechlessly contrite, or to become paralyzed with fear over the sudden realization of the enormity of his crime, Servanne was sadly disappointed.
    “I had heard the Dragon had snared himself quite a beauty,” he murmured speculatively. “Ah well, messengers have been known to err before on the side of generosity.”
    Infuriated by his insolence, not to mention the derision in his comment, Servanne pulled out of Biddy’s embrace and squared her slender shoulders.
    “I beg your pardon, m’sieur,” she said, the chill of untold generations of nobility in her voice. “But do you know who I am?”
    A swift, fierce smile stole across his face and left again without a trace as he moved forward several measured paces. “Has the excitement caused you to forget your name, Lady de Briscourt? If so, I humbly crave your pardon for our methods, but alas, stealth and haste are among our most effective weapons.”
    Two hot stains blossomed on Servanne’s cheeks as she stared into the rain-gray eyes. “Since you obviously know who I am and where I am bound, you must also be aware of whose protection I travel under, and against whose honour you give insult.”
    This time the grin lingered noticeably. “My heart does palpitate with the knowledge, my lady.”
    “It will palpitate with a good deal more if you do not stand aside at once and let us pass on our way unmolested!”
    “I am afraid I cannot do that. Why, to have gone to all this trouble to stop you, only to stand aside and let you go on your way again … surely even someone so pure and innocent as yourself can see there would be little profit for us in that. As for molesting you”—the smouldering eyes took a lazy inventory of her finer points, and there were not many readily visible through the bulk of the samite tunic—“I regret to say I have more important matters to contend with at the moment. But before you puff up with more righteous indignation, be informed that neither you nor any of your lovely ladies will come to any harm while you are under my protection. On that you have my most solemn word.”
    “Your protection? Your word?” she scoffed. “And just who might you be, wolf’s head? You who dare to challenge the authority of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay!”
    The outlaw moved closer, taking the mare’s bridle in his hand to guard against any attempt by her rider to bolt.
    “The name the sheriff has chosen to give me in explaining the lax condition of his spine is … the Black Wolf of Lincoln.” He paused to watch the effect of his words ripple through the ranks of his rapt audience. “The name given me by God is … Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay.”

2

    Servanne no longer saw the beauty of the greenwood. The air no longer felt crisp and clean; rather it was cold and damp and chilled her to the bone even through the heavy layers of her clothing. She no longer paid heed to the tall, stately oaks, nor did she admire the dancing shafts of sunlight or the silvery burble of a meandering stream. She sat erect on Undine’s back, her face a mask of outrage and disbelief. Relieved of the reins by the outlaw leader who now led her horse through